10 - Naked people!

            When Bruce and I left Yellowstone, and were driving through Montana:

            We had planned to make it to Missoula but impulsively stopped 30 miles short at the Bearmouth exit. Bearmouth is a small town. There is one building there, a three story chalet with a sign, “CAMPING-LODGING-GAMES-FOOD-FUN.” It was a cold night – we went for the lodging. There was a bar with a handful of people, but more action was coming from the kitchen, where two women were laughing and joking. There were pinball machines downstairs. While Bruce showered, I played. We then went up to the bar, and by this time, the only people still in the town of Bearmouth, besides us, were the bartender, Bob, the two cooks, Bob’s wife Iris, 18 year old Donnalinda (Donni) (playing Yahtzee at the bar), two young men and two sleeping, unseen lodgers.

              Bruce and I had a few Oly’s (Olympia beer), played Yahtzee, and BS’ed with Bob, Iris and Donni. The two guys, John and Jack, left early. Jack had no thumb from a logging accident. Donni showed me her scar from a logging accident. (It seems that logging and mill work is fairly easy to get into, depending on your experience; ranching is pretty easy to get into for summer work.)

              While Iris quietly won the Yahtzee game, Bob told us about Montana’s unspoiled wilderness, small population and large size, wearing his cowboy hat the whole time. He amused us by accurately guessing the elevations of cities across the U.S.

            Now I’m going to tell you about Donnalinda, which is not her real name for reasons that will become apparent. Not the 1978 part, which is fine except for the insights it gives you into my 21-year-old brain. But for her story today, which is absolutely remarkable.

            First back to 1978:

            Donni told us about herself. She had just graduated from high school, been to Germany, turned down a scholarship in chemical engineering, had a new Datsun, and was absolutely beautiful. She had a way of looking me right in the eye and holding the gaze, sitting very close the whole time. Bob, Iris and Donni urged us to stay “in town” a few days since the area was beautiful. Donni told us about the hot springs, if we wanted to go swimming. They gave us vague directions to “Jerry Johnson’s,” west of the Lochsia Lodge on US 12 in Idaho. Iris warned, “Just make sure you don’t go in the real hot ones, or you’ll scald yourself.” Bob added, “Wear bright clothing or the hunters’ll shoot you. They get anything that moves.” Donni reassured us that if we encountered a bear, not to panic, since the bear would “probably” run away first. “Have fun!” they said.

              The next morning, we drove on winding US 12, looking for Jerry Johnson’s, when we were stopped by a road construction crew for a few minutes. Bruce took some pictures of the countryside and got to talking with three U Montana students behind us. They were headed for the same place so we followed them.

              We got there (we would have never found it on our own, it was totally unmarked), parked, and hiked with a few other people on a two mile trail along a clear running stream. Finally we saw the steam rising from the rocks and we knew we had found the hot springs. About half a dozen naked people basked in steamy pools fed by cascading waters and secluded by rocks from the rest of the stream. Bruce and I got in, exploring the experience, testing the hot pools and cold spring and finally soaking with the others in the hot pools. A couple people were going back and forth between the hot pools and the ice cold rushing stream – we got enough nerve to try the hot/cold effect and found it numbing, shocking, and exhilarating. The hot was hotter than bath water, almost boiling, and the cold colder than refrigerated water. One girl told us, “It’s better than cocaine!”
            

          My return to Bearmouth found the same chalet as before and a friendly proprietor named Jason.

            Jason’s family had the place about six years and he had no knowledge of Bob, Iris or Donni. I went down the road and stopped in a cool little bar, Poor Henry’s, where one of the locals thought he remembered Bob, who had passed. No one recalled Donni. But through the magic of the internet, I found out her amazing story. I was able to do this without a last name because of her extremely unusual first name (again, I’m using a pseudonym for her), and enough clues about her life to piece it together. In fact, her story has been reported in national media.

            Just three years after we met Donni, she was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. As she coped with that, she developed another very unusual health problem in her 30’s, called PBA or “emotional incontinence” – uncontrollable emotional outbursts. She not only learned to live with that, but became an inspirational speaker, usually addressing church groups. In doing this, I’m confident she displays the same riveting charisma I noticed as an infatuated 21 year old. I reached out to Donni through a church she appeared to be affiliated with, and left a message. If she returns my call I will update my blog accordingly.

            My return to Jerry Johnson’s was another story altogether. No longer a secret known only to locals, you can get there through Google Maps and be guided by road signs. You walk across a pack bridge, then the unspoiled wilderness is the same:        

            And so are the hot springs:

Picture me in there naked. Better yet, don't.

            I found a few bathers, but most today wear swimsuits. I told one woman I was last there 40 years ago, and she exclaimed “So was I!” I told her she was probably in one of my photos from back then. (In 1978, we took photos openly; I wouldn’t dare do that today.) 

            I drove on through desolate US 12 in Idaho. I noted in 1978 that “This area is said, by one of the travel books, to be the single most uncluttered patch of wilderness left in the U.S. I believe it.” I would say the same today. I wouldn’t have minded a few of those cassette tapes from 1978, because I couldn’t even get satellite radio, driving an hour or more without even seeing a building, until I got here:

            For dinner I was hoping for pan fried trout and Idaho potatoes. I settled for fried halibut and chips (French fries). I stopped in Waitsburg, Washington for a beer, hoping to find the same “sleazy bar” where we played pool and drank Oly’s. Instead I found a sterile sports bar that had a locally brewed IPA on tap. 

            The good news is that I did find camping near the Cold Springs Reservoir and Wildlife Preserve, in Oregon just across the Columbia River. I drove into Hatrock State Park, past the curious deer, and laid out my sleeping bag on the ground on a warm night, occasionally awakened by a very fine drizzle that didn’t even bother me.

              Tomorrow: along the Columbia River to Portland, visiting Stonehenge along the way.